Hiding from the Healers
by LilyBaggins
Summary: Non-Slash. Silly vignettes written for the FrodoHealers group. Poor Frodo just wants to escape from those who want to tend him.
1. Scared

FIC: Hiding from the Healers  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG   
  
Author's Note: This are just silly little vignettes I wrote---usually when I was bored during my lunch hour---several months ago regarding poor Frodo and the FrodoHealers group (of which I am an active member). I hope no one objects, since they're on the FrodoHealers archive, but if you do, please let me know and I'll remove your name. Again, this is NOT meant to poke fun at anyone---er, anyone who reads *my* fiction will *know* this. :) Since I mean to add to these eventually, and since several other like-minded parodies have made me laugh my head off recently, I thought I'd post them.  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
***  
  
Gandalf looked pitying at the small hobbit curled up in the bed, his face pale and feverish, his hair matted and spread across his pillow. The hobbit was in some serious need of comfort.   
  
The door opened and Elrond ushered in the three female healers---Elwen and Niphrandl of Rivendell and Rufferto, a hobbit from the Shire. Nodding, the elf lord went to Frodo's bedside, leaning over and gently speaking to him.   
  
"Frodo, these healers are here to comfort you. Let them do as they must---they have no small gift for healing."   
  
The hobbit nodded weakly, feeling too chilled and sick to argue. Stepping back, Elrond looked at the three newcomers.   
  
"Go ahead . . . he is ready."   
  
Suddenly, much to Frodo's horror, Elwen settled in the rocking chair next to his bed and leaned over him, taking his trembling hands in hers, while Niphrandl and Rufferto climbed into bed with him, one on either side, both pulling him close and snuggling up to his small warm body.   
  
"Poor wee thing," Rufferto told him as she tucked his blankets about him more securely and stroked his pale face. "You feel feverish. You are seriously in need of some good cuddling."  
  
Frodo's blue eyes widened in shock and he looked to Gandalf for help, but the wizard only smiled.   
  
Meanwhile, Niphrandl had lifted Frodo's shoulders and now had him cradled to her, gently rocking. He squirmed a bit, trying to pull away, feeling more than just a bit awkward, but she would have none of it.   
  
"Now, now, Frodo," she chided. "You've a hard mission ahead of you. Rest here in my arms while you can." She sighed in contentment; against her shoulder the hobbit was wondering if he had the strength to slip the Ring on and disappear.   
  
Elwen noticed his scared look and reached for his hands again, squeezing them, before looking sadly at Elrond. The two of them shared a knowing glance for a moment before Elwen turned back to Frodo, shaking her head in pity. "Frodo, I think you need to tell me about your troubles ..."  
  
Rufferto suddenly got an idea and interrupted. "Hey, let's give him a bath!" The others nodded---it sounded like a good idea. He certainly looked as if he could use one, with his hair all tangly and all.  
  
But the hobbit had other ideas---he was *not* about to let these three strangers take his nightshirt off and bathe him. No way. He looked imploringly at Elrond, but the Lord of Rivendell seemed to be ignoring his predicament.  
  
When the three ladies had let him go for the moment, trying to decide on whether a lavender or eucalyptus bath was more therapeutic, Frodo did the only thing he could think of... he ignored his aching body and dove under the covers, pulling them about him in a shivering heap.   
  
"Hey, where's he gone to?" Rufferto demanded, lifting the bedclothes.   
  
"He's ... under the covers down at the foot of the bed," Niphrandl huffed. "Hold on a minute . . ."  
  
Elwen jumped on the bed, and lifting the covers, the three female healers crawled down until they spied the small figure huddled up under the blankets. "I've got him!" Niphrandl yelled triumphantly as she clutched a fistful of hobbit nightshirt and dragged. "Here he is."  
  
"Gandalf," Frodo pleaded as he was brought into the light of day, suddenly finding the strength to yelp. But no help was forthcoming.   
  
The three ladies efficiently divested the hobbit of his nightshirt, plunked him into the bath until he smelled sweetly of lavender, then reclad him and tucked him back into bed with nice hot water bottles. Through it all, he protested, his face flushed with embarrassment, but he had not the strength to fight three of them off at once.   
  
He was just drifting off for a nice nap when he felt them settle around him in bed, petting his hair and holding him close. But he was too tired to fight anymore, and he heard their voices as if from far   
away . . .   
  
"No Rufferto, *I* get to brush his hair!"   
  
"I don't think so, Miss Elwen. You got to feed him the soup!"   
  
"Look you two, Rufferto got to dry him off with a towel, and you Elwen---you got to carry him back to bed . . . therefore *I* . . . "   
  
*Until the next Frodo sickness* 


	2. Rivendell

***  
  
"So, Master Baggins, you are suffering from pneumonia and rheumatic fever?"  
  
Looking tiny and vulnerable as he lay on his back in the large bed--the effect heightened by his sleep-tangled hair and pale cheeks, Frodo's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a bit. More female healers had come to see him, and he sincerely hoped there would *not* be a repeat of the day before.   
  
"Uh, no," the hobbit said helplessly to the one who had questioned him---Febobe of Rivendell. "Master Elrond already told me I'm only suffering from a winter cold---a result of my increased vulnerability as a result of my Morgul blade wound---and that I should be as right as rain in a few days."  
  
"I see," Febobe remarked, her voice grim. "And have you been given medication for it?"  
  
"Yes, some herbal teas . . . I don't know what kind . . . ."  
  
This time one of the other healers in the room---a hobbit of Michel-Delving, Tangelian, spoke up. "Well, Master Baggins, did it taste foul?"  
  
Frodo shook his head, shrugging. "No, it was actually quite pleasant."  
  
"Mmmm-hmmm," Febobe nodded. "Do you think you could recall if it was chamomile tea, peppermint tea, ginger tea, athelas tea, arnica tea, chokecherry tea, white willow bark tea, cherry bark tea, elecampagne tea, mullein tea, honeysuckle tea, raspberry tea, or St. John's wort?"  
  
The hobbit didn't reply---he simply gaped at her in disbelief for long moments before scooting up as closely as possible to the headboard and curling up into a ball, drawing his covers close about him with a sigh.   
  
Lily Baggins, another hobbit who claimed to be one of Frodo's distant relations (although he suspected she was only out to get his inheritance) raised her eyebrows. "Well, it cannot be the proper medication for you, then. I shall have to ask Aragorn to mix something for you that is highly efficacious and extremely bitter."  
  
The hobbit grimaced, his small face screwing up in disappointment and disbelief. "But I don't *need*. . ."  
  
"Leave it to us to decide what you need, Master Baggins," Febobe told him as she advanced to the side of the bed and laid her hand on the hobbit's brow. He looked up at her, scowling, but she took no notice. "Hmmm . . . I do believe he might be developing a fever---do you all think he's feeling feverish? Come have a feel."  
  
At that, Tangelian and Lily strode up and had their turns pressing on Frodo's forehead, much to his discomfort.   
  
"Definitely on the verge of the verge of possibly being feverish," Tangelian muttered.   
  
"I agree," Lily comfirmed. "He could feel much hotter, but he could also feel a wee bit cooler than he does."  
  
"Exactly what I thought," Febobe added. "He's not too hot yet but he's not too cool either. I'm thinking we should employ compresses rather soon to head it off."  
  
A small voice tried to interrupt. "But I told you . . ."  
  
Lily shook her head, ignoring the sounds of hobbit frustration coming from the bed. "Why wait? Why not steep him in an icewater bath now just to be on the safe side, in case his lukewarmness does start to tend toward heat?"  
  
The other two looked at her and nodded their heads in agreement.   
  
"Excellent idea," declared Febobe. For long moments, they discussed plans for it before turning back to Frodo.   
  
Tangelian's eyes widened at the empty bed. "He's gone! Notify Lord Elrond. We must find him, quickly, before his warmness turns into a full-fledged fever."   
  
Febobe sighed miserably. "Where could he have gone? Why would he have gone? After his treatment he was going to be tucked back into his nice warm bed and fed cozy Shire foods such as thick soups and hot puddings. What hobbit would turn that down?"  
  
Lily looked about the room. "I have no idea---especially when when we were all going to take turns holding him, too." She shook her head. "No doubt about it---he's still in here, either hiding or wearing the Ring." She tapped her foot. "Perhaps we should call Gandalf."  
  
In the corner, behind a large statue of a berobed Elven lady, Frodo huddled, shivering and miserable. He had not put the Ring on despite a terrible temptation to do so. Surely Sauron was not as threatening as these three strange ladies presently here? But no--Master Elrond kept mentioning that the Dark Lord's great eye was FIXED on Rivendell. Best to be safe.  
  
The three healers were looking when Febobe spied a wisp of dark curly hair just behind a large statue in the room and the hobbit's trembling shoulders. Whispering to the others, she advanced.  
  
Frodo heard the footsteps. Oh dear. They had found him. Turning, his eyes grew wide and he paled as they stood, all looking down at him. "Stay away!" he cried, his blue eyes flashing with anger. "By Luthien the Fair, you shall not give me icewater steeps nor bitter medicines!"  
  
But it was for naught. Despite his protests, he felt three sets of arms lifting him--and the hobbit knew he was in trouble.  
  
*Until the next Frodo sickness* 


	3. Ithilien

***  
  
A soft breeze rustled through the tent, and Frodo Baggins opened his eyes wearily as Gandalf's whispered voice broke through his slumber.   
  
"Yes, that is he---the dark-haired hobbit on the left," the wizard was saying. "No ... the other is Sam, who has been his most worthy companion on this Quest. Come, see to Frodo first."  
  
Frodo's eyes opened a bit more as three females approached, all clad in the robes of the Houses of Healing. He was tired . . . so very tired . . . but not too tired to grimace at the prospect of what lay ahead. He had endured it just a few days earlier---the poking, prodding, pressing, asking questions about his bodily functions that should, by all accounts, remain private. Poor Sam had had his share of it, too---but not so much as Frodo, and the poor hobbit was at a loss to understand why.   
  
Seeing that Frodo was awake, Gandalf smiled and stepped into the tent. "Frodo---here are three healers who would like to take a quick look at you. They are from the Houses of Healing: Overlithien, Amelia, and   
Hope."  
  
The hobbit nodded, wondering why the females were staring at him so. Well, perhaps they had never seen a hobbit before. Suddenly, all three were about his bed---Amelia sitting beside him, Overlithien leaning over him on the right side, and Hope peering at him from her spot on his right.   
  
"Look, Overlithia, Hope. His hand has been grievously wounded---we must clean and rebandage it, I think."   
  
"It was just cleaned a bit ago..." Frodo began, only to be cut off.  
  
"And the whip mark---ah, it breaks my heart to even think about such on this innocent creature. It will have to be cleaned again."  
  
"And we must fatten him up---look how pitifully thin the poor thing is . . . a travesty."   
  
"Most definitely, Amelia. And so pale... but such lovely ivory skin."  
  
"You don't have to tell me--I noticed. Look at his hair, too---haven't seen that one on a hobbit before. Although, I'm quite certain it's needing a good washing."  
  
"I'll wash it, Hope, while you can give him the sponge bath."  
  
All three ignored the very worried pair of blue eyes staring up at them.   
  
"Hmmm... really, Overlithien... I'm thinking it would be better to simply let him soak for a while. I'll scrub him in the tub and then you can rub the lotion into his skin."  
  
A soft male hobbit voice was heard to say, "Lotion? Please, that's not necess---"  
  
"Overlithien, if you would grab those large fluffy towels over there---yes, that one should be *perfect* to wrap him up in after we retrieve him dripping from the tub---"  
  
"Here you go---will you also be wanting a clean nightshirt for him?"  
  
"Not necessary, really. He can go without."  
  
"Really, I would feel more comfortable *with* a nightshirt..."  
  
  
"And make sure, Hope, that you consult with the others on his dose of medication. It has to be right--he's such a small little thing, you know."  
  
"Yes, indeed... he looks very much like one of the Fair Folk, does he not?"  
  
"Well, that's what everyone says. Hmmmm... Hope can attend to the medicine ... Hope? Hope!! Leave Sam alone and come over here."  
  
"Yes, ma'am. I was just looking at him for a moment."  
  
"Well... you'll get your chance later. Now, set about to changing this little one's bed linens. You'll have to pick him up to do that, of course..."  
  
"I am *perfectly* capable of climbing out of the bed myself..."  
  
"Nonsense, Master Baggins... we can't have that..."   
  
The next two hours passed in a dizzying blur for Frodo as he was poked, prodded, pressed, peered at, undressed, unclad, disrobed, de-gowned, washed, cleaned, disinfected, bathed, soaked, immersed, steeped, rubbed, patted, dried, coddled, lotioned, oiled, carried, brushed, ointmented, bandaged, redressed, fed, medicated, drugged, and finally, put back to bed and tucked in neatly.  
  
"Oh, Amelia, he does look so snug and comfortable now, doesn't he?"  
  
"He certainly does ... oh, he's yawning, Overlithien. He must be so tired from his ordeal... thank goodness we took care not to exhaust him further."   
  
"Hope, excellent job with the bath. Even his little fingernails are clean, finally."  
  
"Thank you---it was certainly a challenge." She paused as she brushed a lock of dark hair back from the sleeping Frodo's brow. "Now I guess we need to start on Sam?"  
  
In the bed next to Frodo's, two brown eyes gazed horror-stricken at the three...   
  
*Until the next Frodo sickness* 


	4. Lothlorien

***  
  
"He is up there and quite injured—go tend to him, if you will," Haldir directed the three as he pointed to the top of a great mallorn tree. The elf was hoping they would climb quickly—the healers were staring at him in a way that made him rather nervous.   
  
The tallest one nodded and they proceeded to ascend the ladder to the flet without difficulty; their eyes growing wide as they poked their heads up through the floor.   
  
On the far side of the flet sat a hobbit. He was sitting with his legs drawn up, hands clasped about his furry feet, dark curly head resting on his knees. He lifted his head when he heard the healers enter and opened his eyes, causing the three ladies to gasp loudly.   
  
"Oh, look how lovely . . . as blue as the Sea of Helcar . . . did you two see those?"   
  
"Yes, indeed, Ice Princess," Shireboundia replied, walking to the hobbit and kneeling before him. "Poor dear—the elf told us you were injured." She laid a hand on Frodo's head, causing him to scowl slightly. "We're here to help you, Master Frodo—I am Shireboundia, this is Ariel, and this is Ice Princess."   
  
The hobbit stared for a moment at Ice Princess before he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "Are you . . . from Caradhras?"  
  
She laughed. "Oh dear me, no . . . nothing of the sort. But enough talk about us----tell me where it hurts now, love."  
  
Frodo raised his eyebrows at the epithet but didn't remark on it. "Just my side—I was speared by a cave troll in Moria and am a bit bruised." His face grew puzzled. "I honestly don't know why Haldir called for you—Aragorn has already washed my hurts and bound them."  
  
Ariel clicked her tongue at him. "Aragorn is fine at mending battle injuries, I am sure, but he is not trained as we are, Frodo. What does a mere ranger know about healing anyway? No, we must look at your injuries. Please remove your shirt."  
  
"Yes," echoed Shireboundia, "the shirt must go."  
  
Sighing, Frodo unfastened his braces and unbuttoned his shirt, trying to slip out of it painlessly. But it was impossible with his injuries and the three healers rushed to help him.   
  
"Get that sleeve, Ariel—"  
  
"I've got it, Ice Princess, now just hold your arm out, Frodo—look, such a tiny little shirt—"  
  
"What in the devil is that? What in Middle-earth are you wearing under there?"  
  
Frodo looked up at them, suddenly feeling dizzy from the whir of activity. He just wanted to rest—to lie down and sleep in peace without anyone else touching him. He sighed.  
  
"It is a mithril coat, to turn a blade. Were it not for this coat I would be dead now." He stared at the three of them. "Must I take it off? It is quite difficult to remove."  
  
Shireboundia glared at him. "Absolutely. We cannot treat you if you are wearing *that* thing." She looked at the other two healers, hands on her hips. "Come, we'll help Frodo take it off."  
  
Frodo swallowed hard as the three bent to pry the coat off him, raising his arms above his head and grasping the bottom of the mail to pull it off.  
  
"Snakes and adders, that *hurts!*" he yelled as they all manipulated the mail, finally wrangling it over his head and taking a few strands of his dark hair in the process (which Ice Princess promptly pocketed). Finally it was off—leaving a light shirt of leather, which the healers also removed.   
  
The hobbit grimaced as he felt the cool breeze on his now bare torso and felt rather . . . unnerved by the height of the flet and the three ladies staring at him. Shireboundia broke the silence.   
  
"Is your tummy hurting, dear? You look a bit . . . peaked."  
  
"No, it is the height of the flet. Hobbits generally do not enjoy heights, and I am no exception."  
  
"Awwww . . . we'll put you to sleep and in short order you won't even know where you are. Now, let us undo this bandage here, Frodo, and see what we have . . . oh, my—look at this terrible bruising on such delicate skin!"   
  
Ariel and Ice Princess shook their heads. "A travesty—the poor thing is black and blue. I think he needs a hug."  
  
"Now, Ariel, you cannot hug him in his condition . . . it would be too painful for his ribs . . . how about if we rock him gently? After he's nice and drowsy, of course."  
  
"Oh, yes, that would surely help. Let's wrap him in blankets, too. May I have the honors?"  
  
"Of course, of course—but right now let us get some nice hot chamomile tea down him, shall we? And let us hope he does not look in Galadriel's mirror or the poor dear will be needing a strong sedative, and quickly . . ."  
  
"No, I do not *need* to be gently rocked," Frodo retorted, "and I do not wish to drink any chamomile tea or be wrapped in blankets, either. I thought Aragorn said I would find peace in Lothlorien." His voice broke off despairingly and he bowed his head. "I am wounded, wounded . . . from herbal infusions, baths, rubbing, and long cuddling—where shall I find rest?"  
  
*Until the next Frodo sickness* 


	5. The Shire

He sighed deeply. It was one of the bad days and he'd taken to his bed that afternoon after luncheon, hoping to get through the inevitable sickness and get back to what passed, for him, as normal. But before   
he drifted off to sleep---and despite his weakness---there was one thing he still had to do.   
  
Throttle Samwise Gamgee.   
  
It didn't matter that Sam had stewed rabbits for Frodo in Ithilien, carried him up Mt. Doom, or that Sam was about to become a father in a few months—he was a dead hobbit.   
  
"SAM! Sam, come here please!" Frodo hollered as loudly as his recovering body was able. Swiftly, he heard running feet and Sam was in his room, his brown eyes wide with worry.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, what do you need? Your Sam will fetch it straightaway."  
  
"Sam, listen. The next time a healer knocks on the door, I *need* you to turn her away. I can't get *any* rest for the poking, prodding, and prying that they do! I know what's wrong with me---*you* know what's wrong with me—--so why are they here? Please don't let another one in, promise?" He shuddered.   
  
"Easy Mr. Frodo, I'm right sorry. But I think they came from Rivendell, sir. I surely didn't call 'em and neither did Rosie---they must've tracked you down. And . . . how do you know the healer will be a 'she'?"  
  
Frodo groaned. "Trust me, I know. They all are."  
  
Feeling guilty for raising his voice now, Frodo sagged back into his soft bed. He was cranky and tired and irritable, and the flashbacks to the day before were nearly worse than his nightmares.   
  
***  
  
Sam had ushered the three healers into Frodo's room—all of them ducking to avoid the low ceilings as their eyes eagerly took in the smial's trappings.   
  
"Well, would you look at this?" Healer Telcontar asked. "Isn't this tiny furniture the cutest thing ever? It's so cozy I could just move in here and set up shop."  
  
A whimper issued from the bed at these words and the healers turned their attention to the small figure curled up upon it. Frodo lay on his side, his face pale and beaded with sweat, gazing at them with horror-stricken eyes as he grasped at something about his neck.   
  
"No . . . please go . . ." he begged. "I just want to sleep. Please leave me alone."  
  
Healer Claudia frowned and felt his brow. "Frodo, be sensible now," she soothed. "Ooooo—you are running a fever. Now open those adorable full lips and say, `Ahhhhh . . .'"  
  
Perhaps, Frodo thought to himself, he could get rid of them faster if he complied. "Ahhhhh . . ."  
  
"Hmmm . . . well, it not the quinsy and it's not respiratory . . . his little tongue looks nicely pink---not coated at all."  
  
Impatient, the hobbit couldn't help but respond despite his sickness. "I *know* it's n . . . not respiratory. It's . . . an aftereffect of being stabbed by a blade of the Enemy."   
  
Healer Ainur nodded knowingly. "Mmm-hmmm. That's what they all say. Could be a touch of dropsy or the cachexy. Now, let's just remove your nightshirt and take a gander while we palpate you . . ."  
  
Frodo's eyes turned into saucers. "You'll do nothing of the sort!" he responded vehemently, crossing his arms and forcing the healers to pry them open.   
  
"Oh my," Telcontar squealed. "What a lovely pendant. Look ladies---I wonder where he got it! I want one!"  
  
"Queen Arwen . . . g . . . gave it . . ." Frodo said softly, his eyes beginning to tear over with exhaustion and pain.   
  
"Didn't Arwen wear a pendant not unlike that?" Claudia asked, ignoring him. "Perhaps he had one made to copy it—it *is* rather attractive, though not what I'd expect a hobbit to enjoy wearing. But then I've heard these Bagginses are an unusual sort."  
  
Telcontar nodded as she tried to undo the buttons of Frodo's gown. "Must . . . oof, Frodo, stop that . . . " There was quite a scuffle on the bed and a small shout from Frodo, but finally, Telcontar's bigger hands overpowered the small hobbit and he weakened, allowing her to pull the gown off over his head. As quickly as he was able, Frodo scooped the covers up and drew them tightly about himself.  
  
Lowering her glasses, Ainur peered at the hobbit down the bridge of her nose and felt along his neck, ignoring the blue-eyed glare she was receiving. "Well, Claudia, Telcontar, what do you think? The ague? Can't be the pox---his skin is still as smooth and lovely as a newborn babe's. Feel."  
  
They did---pulling the blankets from his chest and smoothing their hands over him and murmuring. "Yes, so very soft and unblemished . . . cannot be the camp fever, either. Perhaps the King's scrofula? Doesn't look like gout."  
  
"I do *not* have Aragorn's scrofula, thank you . . ." came the emphatic statement from Frodo.   
  
"Of course not, my dear," Claudia replied, now pressing the hobbit's small stomach and eliciting a wheeze from him. "Could be a touch of the bilious fever or scotomy. He might need a good purgative to keep the bowels cleansed."  
  
"I'm quite certain my bowels are just dandy. SAM!" Frodo pulled on all his energy to yell as loudly as he was able, but was quite certain his friend was outside planting peas and could not hear. Curling up into a shivering ball, he closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear. He did not want to be purged, palpated, disemboweled, or whatever horrible things they were planning. Suddenly he jumped, finding his voice despite his weakness. "I'll . . . I'll thank you *not* to t-touch that, ma'am!"   
  
"Surely you're not that sensitive about your hand, Frodo. How did you lose that finger, anyway? Farming accident?"  
  
"I am not a farmer. I happened to have . . ."  
  
Ainur interrupted him. "With all the dirt on these fingernails and you aren't a farmer? Bah!! You really should be more careful around those pony-drawn plows, you know. I hope you don't plan on farming again anytime soon, because you obviously aren't . . ."  
  
"But I told you I'm not a farmer---you see, this creature . . ."  
  
Claudia patted Frodo's head and smoothed his hair back, playing with his curls. "Rest, rest, Frodo. You've just a wee case of chlorosis---we'll clear it up in in a few weeks with lots of turnip and parsnip stew---"  
  
"A . . . a few WEEKS? But I . . . don't like turnips. Can't I have a bit of the mushroom soup Rosie cooks up for me?"  
  
This time it was Telcontar who shook her head. "Mushroom soup is for sissies. No, you need a good big vat of turnip stew to strengthen your constitution and put some rosiness into those sweet cheeks. Samwise Gamgee!!"  
  
The last thing Frodo heard before he drifted off into blessed darkness was Telcontar calling for Sam and ordering turnip stew.   
  
***  
  
"And that's it, Sam," Frodo told his best friend, his eyes a bit teary, as he lay in the bed, once again resting comfortably. "The ship will sail soon, and I shall go with it."  
  
"But Mr. Frodo, you can't go where your Sam can't follow!"  
  
Frodo smiled, patting his friend's hand lightly, his eyes seeming to look far away. "That's just it, Sam---I have to go where *they* can't follow. It's the only solution, I fear. You cannot always be torn in two---whether to keep the healers out of Bag End or let them in."  
  
He took a deep breath. "No, I shall go sailing, sailing over the Sea, far, far away from them . . ."  
  
*The End* 


End file.
